<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>"Controling A Crowd Is Just What Bards Do, Geralt" by goodtea</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28930548">"Controling A Crowd Is Just What Bards Do, Geralt"</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodtea/pseuds/goodtea'>goodtea</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, F/M, M/M, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Performance Art, Torture, War, author is mostly making this up as they go, hey so what if everyone DIDN'T just wait around for Geralt to solve all their problems all the time, hey so what if jaskier got to be cool, no beta we die like men, specificaly one bard being himself</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 13:54:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,779</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28930548</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodtea/pseuds/goodtea</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The story goes two ways, depending who tells it.</p><p>In one, Jaskier is captured by Nilfgaard and rescued by two well-meaning folks.<br/>In the other Jaskier is captured by Nilfgaard and left to die. Only Julian survives.</p><p>Of course, like any good story, both sides told are true.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Other(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>91</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A Bard</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It's just what any good bard did. Any old fool could sing for a crowd. No one spent time and money, years worth of both, studying at Oxfort to do what any old fool could do. Bards were trained to read and seize complete control over an audience, and the best got hired by courts to keep the nobles in line during feasts.</p><p><br/>
Jaskier had been hired to perform at many feasts and courts over the years and had received numerous offers for permanency, but he never stayed. Permanent residence in a court would have been good for Jaskier; he could spend several years playing for a set crowd for an exuberant fee and retire early and comfortably whenever he finally grew out of fashion. Unfortunately, permanency also meant he could not travel with Geralt again, and Jaskier knew he'd take dying poor and old on the road before he gave up his travels with Geralt. Sure, he'd started traveling with Geralt for the inspiration. But he'd kept traveling with Geralt, year after year and adventure after adventure for an entirely different reason.</p><p><br/>
Perhaps though, Jaskier quietly admitted to himself from the floor of a Nilfgaard prison, he should have recognized a pipe dream for what it was and known when to quit.<br/>
After the events of the mountain, Jaskier had quietly fucked off, determined to not let Geralt lash out on him with his bad temper. He figured they'd inevitably meet again at some point, as they always did, but it turns out Geralt had similarly fucked off the face of the Continent. Or at least that's what the rumors said. No one had seen hide nor hair of the Witcher since the events of the mountain. Which was bad for a number of reasons, but primarily it was bad for Jaskier because it meant that when Nilfgaard went looking for the White Wolf it was Jaskier they'd captured for interrogation.</p><p><br/>
And it was Jaskier who suffered, enduring beatings and worse while his prison guards kept asking a question he did not know the answer to over and over.</p><p><br/>
Jaskier did not know how long he'd been kept in his dungeon cell, but eventually his hair had turned white. Stress was the culprit when hair went prematurely white and Jaskier figured nothing could be more stressful than being endlessly tortured. He'd accepted the hair color change with grace, he thought. Looks mattered to performers afterall, and Jaskier was famous across the whole Continent. But no one was around to see Jaskier other than his prison guards and at some point between the hair and when they'd broken Jaskier's fingers one by one he had accepted that he likely was going to die on the Nilfgaardian dungeon floor. He'd never perform again.</p><p><br/>
The door clanged as a key turned and the lock shifted. Jaskier barely stirred from his position on the floor, only moving enough to shift his over-grown hair out of his eyes so he could watch as the door swung open.</p><p><br/>
Two men stepped forward that Jaskier had never seen before. They both looked brawny, of strong stock, but moved quietly on their feet as they entered the cell.<br/>
"Do you think it's this one?," the first asked before his eyes swept the cell, his gaze finally catching on Jaskier on the ground. He stopped abruptly and the men behind him similarly paused. Both eyed Jaskier speculatively. "I suppose that's him then," the first man spoke again, though he sounded uncertain.</p><p><br/>
"Do you see anyone else in this godsforsaken prison?" the second one replied a bit gruffly. His hand swept behind them, indicating the torture chambers they'd passed to finally arrive at the cells.</p><p><br/>
"I thought," the first one leaned back to whisper, "that he was supposed to be human."</p><p><br/>
Jaskier almost made a strangled noise at that. Of course he was human. What else would he be?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A Memory</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Some good, old-fashioned family feels.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Jaskier," the barmaid had been kind, concerned. "Perhaps it's time you laid low for a while, hmm?"<br/>
</p><p>Rumors that Nilfgaard was looking for the White Wolf, and therefore his bard by default, had spread far and wide by then. For all the jovalty Jaskier's performances brought, lately there'd been an undercurrent of murmurs and side-eying the door every time he was recognized. For all that he was loved, people recognized the danger he was in and the danger that his presence brought. The wrath of Nilfgaard was known to spill over onto innocent bystanders, bar-patrons being no exception.<br/>
</p><p>Jaskier had given her a bland smile and a frivolous response. What was the point of a bard that couldn't perform?<br/>
</p><p>Now, months later Jaskier felt the irony of that response. He'd never perform again.<br/>
</p><p>Jaskier's vocal cords were too damaged from a mixture of repeated strangulation and other abuse to be of any use. Whenever he attempted to speak his voice came out as a scraggly croak, uneven and scratchy. Jaskier found that he preferred not to talk, both because he suddenly disliked the sound of his own voice and also because speaking hurt. Matt and Tom, his rescuers, both encouraged Jaskier to speak whenever he could. Jaskier, who had never been prone to silence, felt he had nothing to say during those first few days on the road. Matt and Tom made enough easy conversation between themselves, being long time travel companions who knew each other well. </p><p>They'd been hired to see to the rescue and well-being of Jaskier, and were content at the moment to leisurely make their way to a safe place to hunker down for a while, now that half their commission was completed. Jaskier himself wasn't quite sure what to make of his companions. They were a mix of both lethal and easy-going. After decades of traveling with one man who was lethal and the definition of "troubled" it was an odd adjustment for Jaskier, recovering from recent torture not-withstanding.<br/>
</p><p>Matt and Tom had asked Jaskier if he perhaps had a home he could return to. Jaskier had given a noncommittal shrug and grunt. It was the type of response he'd once have teasingly scolded Geralt for, but talking still hurt and as far as family was concerned Jaskier had never had much to say. It certainly had never come up with Geralt. Jaskier wasn't sure how to feel when he realized Geralt had never once inquired into his family even after decades of friendship, but Jaskier also wasn't sure how to feel about anything right then.<br/>
</p><p>Once when Jaskier had been younger, long before he'd met Geralt or even been Jaskier, his mother had stroked her fingers deftly through his hair and whispered, "Oh, my blue boy."<br/>
</p><p>Jaskier had sniffed and mumbled, "Mum, I'mnnot blue."<br/>
</p><p>"No," his mother had replied, "but you are sad. You're not blue as in the color, you're blue as in the feeling." And then she'd let Jaskier cry his young little heart out over some relatively minor inconvenience that Jaskier could no longer remember the details of. He just remembered she'd sung him a soft, sad song while he cried and hearing his own emotions reflected back at him soothed a deep ache to be heard in Jaskier's heart.<br/>
</p><p>When his mother died, she died two deaths. The first was her actual death, sudden and unexpected to a Jaskier who hadn't even reached his tenth birthday. The second death occurred months later, after the funeral. Jaskier's father had caught him crying and promptly shamed him.<br/>
</p><p>"What do you have to cry for, boy? You think you're sad? You've never been sad." He'd ranted at Jaskier behind closed doors, away from guests and Jaskier's siblings. "Don't show that face to me. You think you've had a bad day? Huh? How do you think I feel? Stop crying." Unsurprisingly, the command hadn't worked. Jaskier's father had leaned in, something frightening in his eyes. "We're not leaving this room until you've put yourself together." Where the command hadn't worked, the threat did. Jaskier's father had never laid a hand on him at that point, but Jaskier had become aware in that moment that his mother was no longer around to smooth things over. She would never be around to shield him again.<br/>
</p><p>After he'd calmed his father had given a final warning. "Don't you dare ever show that in front of me again."<br/>
</p><p>Jaskier had stopped crying, and had done his very best to never cry again after that. Jaskier had never liked his father, but his siblings admired the man enough. If the man who held his siblings' awe so much said he was at fault for crying over his mother, than ten year old Jaskier believed it.<br/>
</p><p>In later years after his mother died Jaskier would cling to the single soft memory of his mother singing. When he chose his stage name he named himself after something cheerful, something yellow. Something like the buttercups that krept around every spring back when his mother had been alive. He'd done his best to live up to the brightness promised in his name.<br/>
</p><p>Now, a week after his rescue, Jaskier found himself attracted to darker colors for the first time in his life. They helped him not to stand out as they traveled the roads, Jaskier rightfully paranoid that he'd be recognized by some stranger and turned right over back to Nilfgaard. With his hood up and his sleeves down people couldn't see his pointy ears or his new, still-healing scars to stare at them.<br/>
</p><p>The sleeves did not, however, stop Jaskier from staring at his scars himself. Late at night as the campfire would die and Tom and Matt would disappear to cuddle in their tent, Jaskier would roll up his sleeves and just stare and stare as his arms. They didn't look like his arms anymore. For one, they were much too skinny. Jaskier had always carried just the slightest bit of persistent baby fat on his body, no matter his diet. He used to joke with Geralt that the extra layer of fat kept him warm in the the winter. Geralt, quite beefy himself, would give an amused grunt. Occasionally Jaskier would catch Geralt in a light-hearted mood and Geralt would joke back. Once he'd insinuated that Jaskier ought to pack on the pounds so he could spend all winter doing his favorite activity; sleeping in. Not expecting humor of any kind, Jaskier had roared at the joke and repeated it, to mixed reviews, to everyone they came across that summer.<br/>
</p><p>Now Jaskier's wrists were so boney he could wrap his fingers around them and connect his thumb to his pinky.<br/>
</p><p>The other major change to his arms were the pale lines that started on his hands where the guards had broken his fingers and stretched endlessly to the rest of his body. Some were bumpy, some were smooth and clean. Some were not yet scars; red and prone to re-opening if he was not careful. The stitches all across his back meant that Jaskier now had to move deliberately with every exhale. He had to sleep on his front lest he rip them open by accident.<br/>
</p><p>Jaskier had yet to see his face in a mirror and he was too horrified to inspect his body beyond his arms. Matt, who had treated his wounds, called the fact that he was even capable of moving "a sick-joke of a miracle." Tom, who had not seen any of Jaskier's wounds aside from when they had found him, often treated Jaskier as if he was made of already cracked glass.<br/>
</p><p>And Jaskier still wasn't sure what to feel.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>(sorry it's short! i promise i'm just trying to build the story without rushing or being careless.)</p><p>(also all your comments on the first chapter gave me life, ty very much :,)))</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Geralt</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The tiniest bit of a time-skip.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Geralt hears the whispers long before he ever sees the man.</p><p>The whispers speak of a half-breed, half man and half elf, who rose up just as the lands were losing their hope and united the people of all kingdoms to stand against the Nilfgaard's invasion. They spoke of his cunning and his presence, of his gaze that could send shivers down the spine of any man. Of the power in his command, how he united not only man, but man and elf against a common enemy. Of how he didn't age and how no one was sure he ever would. And of, and these were the whispers that drew Geralt out of hiding in the first place, how he was the true King of the people and would rule the land even against Cirilla herself. Cirilla who, in her absence, had grown into a legendary figure as well. The whispers of her one-day return as a rightful and just ruler had shifted in recent years. Where before her return had been eagerly awaited, now there was a scoff added to her name. Why be ruled by royalty again, the people asked, when they had a fine ruler and commander that had earned their loyalty?</p><p>So Geralt had come out to see what all the fuss was about.</p><p> </p><p>The first time Geralt saw the fabled Julian, it had not been on purpose . Geralt was out riding to find information, not to meet the mysterious leader himself. It was the rumble of the earth that had Geralt leaving Roach by the footpath, and curiosity that had him knocking away branches to see past the cliff edge to the scene down below. The roar of voices made him cautious, careful to see but to not be seen.</p><p>There was an army down below- no, two armies. On one side stood Nilfgaard, numerous and heavily armoured. On a raised bit of earth, surrounded by infantrymen, stood what Geralt presumed to be the captains and commanders of Nilfgaard. They stood out with brightly colored capes and freshly polished armour and weapons, looking the part of pampered upper-military men.</p><p>Across from the Nilfgaard forces stood a second army, whose insignia Geralt did not recognise. He knew intuitively that this meant this must be the  resistance he had heard about- the last line of defense against Nilfgaard. What people called the Last Hope of the United Kingdoms. The Band of the Phoenix. For being such a rag-tag group, supposedly made-up of various men and volunteers from the villages and cities throughout the continent, they certainly looked organized enough. Men stood in strategically placed squadrons, weapons polished and ready. Despite not a matching uniform present there was an obvious unity in the way the soldiers shifted and waited patiently, calmly for a command. The Band of the Phoenix had to be half the size of the Nilfgaardian army they were about to face, yet not a single man looked nervous.</p><p>Geralt had chanced upon a battle ground, moments before an actual battle. </p><p>Trumpets blared from Nilfgaard's band line, positioned towards the back but within hearing range, and soldiers on both sides quieted down. One Nilfgaardian commander strode forward on the bit of raised land importantly. He gestured to a fat and pompous man to his left, seated atop a white horse that struggled under his weight as he began to speak.</p><p>"Soldiers of Nilfgaard! It is a time to rejoice as the Royal Commissioned Officer Deralt of Jennivere has joined us in what is to become the historic battle where we put every head of the resistance army on a pike!" This was met with cheers by the Nilfgaard soldiers. Commissioned Officer Deralt of Jennivere puffed up his already puffed chest. "Most importantly," the commander continued as the cheers died down, "this shall be the day we put the head of the savage, nasty, uncivilized rebellion leader on a pike as well! Death to Julian! Death to the Phoenix!" This short speech was followed by chants of 'death to Julian' and 'death to the phoenix' from the soldiers below.</p><p>Throughout the whole short speech, the soldiers on the other side of the battlefield had been silent as a grave, waiting. It was time for their leader's turn to give a speech before battle, per the rules of engagement. </p><p>The Nilfgaardian rulers stood, smirking and goading as the cries of their soldiers finally died out. They hadn't bothered writing a very impressive speech because why bother? Everyone knew the Band of the Phoenix were peasants, largely illiterate and likely incapable of writing a sentence, let alone a speech, for themselves. They'd mostly agreed to the regular rules of engagement for the opportunity to laugh and humiliate the other army when they inevitably failed to rouse their peasant soldiers.</p><p>Soon the whole battlefield was again silent, save for the occasional shifting of armour and rustling of leaves in the wind. A stillness fell as everyone waited to see who would step forward to speak for and rouse the Band of the Phoenix for battle. Geralt found himself waiting with a mix of anticipation and dread. Who would speak for the rag-tag soldiers?</p><p>It started with the drums. It was odd, as there was no drumline apparent in the Band of the Phoenix. But a slow, steady beat built from the trees. A BOOM BOOM BOOM that grew louder as it grew closer, but the beat remained the same. The army of Nilfgaardian soldiers shuffled with unease at the unusual display as the drums grew louder and louder, closer and closer. </p><p>Finally, shapes began to emerge from the treeline, surrounding both armies. The drumline and, Geralt realized, the other half of the Band of the Phoenix. The front line of the drummers reached the edge of the treeline and halted, the soldiers following them stopping just a step behind, but more drummers and more soldiers kept appearing from behind trees and deeper in the woods. The slow build of forces accompanied by the steady loud drums set even Geralt's blood running. This, he thought, was a true display of power. Not the pompous and short speech shared by the Nilfgaardian captain, and certainly not anything Geralt or the army of Nilfgaard had expected of the band of the Phoenix. The planning, the uniformity. The pure intimidation.</p><p>The Nilfgaardian soldiers cowered, realizing they were suddenly both surrounded and outnumbered. Geralt witnessed Commissioned Officer Deralt whirling around on his horse to shout at the officer who had spoken earlier and though his words were drowned out by the steady beat of the drums, the fear was plain on his face. Geralt saw it, and the soldiers of both Nilfgaard and the Band of the Phoenix saw it. It was the final move needed to break the confidence of the soldiers of Nilfgaard and boost the Phoenix soldiers. The drums came to an abrupt stop as the last  of the soldiers arrived. </p><p>Silence settled back over the valley, but not for long.</p><p>A single rider strode forward through the trees atop a speckled grey courser horse, a draping grey-blue cloak covering his body and  his face and a long bow at his back. He approached from a raised bit of valley rock, stopping the stead at the edge. His hands, from what Geralt could see of them apart from the long sleeves he wore, were covered in bandages. Most interesting about the figure was both how his presence somehow drew the eye of every soldier in the valley and his ears. His hood had two holes cut out at the sides so his long, pointed elf ears could poke out, both heavy with piercings. From the very edges of his hood white wisps of hair stuck out and caught the wind. This, Geralt surmised, was the leader if the Band of the Phoenix. Julian. </p><p>The silence rang out, but was nothing compared to the gravely, low voice that finally spoke out to the gathered armies. "Any Nilfgaardian soldier that has something to go back to- a wife, a child, something they hold dear to their heart- now is the time to leave should you ever hope to see them again."</p><p>The soldiers of Nilfgaard startled. This was not the speech they had been expecting. None of this had been what they had been expecting. Still, Geralt felt surprise as he noticed some started to shift and flee. Commissioned Officer Deralt noticed too and reared his poor horse, earning a shriek from it as he force it to momentarily bare his weight on it's hind legs, to get his army's attention. </p><p>"Any man who leaves shall be hunted and executed in whatever way I find most painful and humiliating! Not a single one of you better dare-" the sentence was never finished as suddenly a single arrow was protruding from Deralt's mouth, having traveled strait through his skull. His horse reared a second time, this time of it's own volition, and displaced the now dead weight of its rider, kicking off and disappearing through the trees. Geralt, and every shocked eye in the valley, followed the arrow's trajectory back to the man on the speckled courser, longbow now in hand, fingers still in position from releasing the arrow. </p><p>He spoke again, his voice just as ruined as it had been the first time. "As I'm sure all are aware, we are no soldiers of class. There is no need to stand on ceremony."  Below, the remaining Nilfgaardian officer was sputtering, but no one was paying him any attention. Every eye watched the cloaked commander of the Band of the Phoenix. One hand reached back, clasped another arrow from his quiver, and drew it back tight along his bowstring. Every eye turned, following his line of sight to the second Nilfgaard commander. The Nilfgaard commander finally noticed and promptly began to run. </p><p>Geralt and two armies heard an arrow release from a string and  watched as it spiraled through the air, piercing its mark through the skull as the first one had. It was an instant kill. The officer crumbled into a still heap. Geralt whipped his head back around to the cloaked commander as he heard a third arrow notch. Somehow the tip of this one was on fire. The men of the Band of the Phoenix seemed to be holding their breathe, waiting for something from their commander. </p><p>The man drew his bow taught. Right before he released his third arrow his spoke one last time, giving his army the command they had been waiting for. "Kill them all."</p><p>-------<br/>
"Kill them all."</p><p>Geralt shivered as he was reminded that, to the people of midland, this was a very personal war. The war against Nilfgaard was not the result of some squabble between two lordlings as most wars often were. This was real- Nilfgaard's ruthless invasion had been real and now the backlash, a ruthless guerrilla army, was also real. It was exactly the slaughter Geralt had thought it to be since that final command had been given.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ya'll probably know who Julian is, but if you don't it'll be obvious in the next chapter. This one was a lot of fun to write.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey let me know if this is any good and if I should continue. i have to sleep now, but I have Ideas.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>